


Of Shop Boys and Ice Cream

by waitingtobelit



Series: with starry feet [8]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Romance, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:35:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan laments a broken air conditioner during a particularly hot summer day. Cosette and her father appear like a pair of miracles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Shop Boys and Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during the excessive heat wave of July and somewhat based on my own experience working in retail. And then the Stardust references just kind of snuck up on me. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables, this was written purely for recreational purposes.

“It’s hotter than Satan’s balls, fucking Christ.”

Eloquent as ever, Grantaire waves one of Enjolras’ older pamphlets as a make-shift fan; Jehan struggles not to throw himself against the metal framing the window to the right of the register.

Standing behind the register, Musichetta does not reprimand Grantaire for his language, only glares at him with pursed lips and her arms across her chest, the most adamant testament to the extremity of the temperature in the book store. Her typically immaculate, dark hair frizzes in the same way as Jehan’s short, auburn locks do, and for once, she is dressed down in a tank top and capris, without even her usual, minimal amount of make-up. Jehan wonders if this is the beginning of the apocalypse as he gulps down more water from his bottle and winces at the young boy whining a couple of aisles up from the register. (He knows he should attempt to help them again even though they refused Grantaire’s offer of assistance ten minutes ago. Not even Musichetta makes an attempt, only wincing as the young boy’s voice reaches glass-shattering levels of nightmare inducement.)

The air conditioner in the Lilac Branch broke yesterday afternoon, in the middle of Jehan’s shift with Marius. They only had to endure the heat for three hours, but by the time they had left, the store had reached 90 degrees. Now, two hours into his next shift, the air conditioner still doesn’t work, as the repairmen had informed Musichetta that they were caught up with the multitude of businesses’ whose air conditioning seemed to break all at once during the same day, and would get to them as soon as they could. (Musichetta, in a rare moment, had dented the office wall next to the phone with the force of her fist. Even Grantaire, master of wisecracks at the most inappropriate of moments, could only gape in admiration, shrinking back a little at the spark in Musichetta’s eyes and the pale tension of her knuckles.)

Jehan, meanwhile, had sighed as the familiar ache began creeping up his neck to his head.

Jehan and excessive heat without any access to cooling methods make for an unfortunate combination, like a high school chemistry experiment gone wrong. He doesn’t explode per se, but his patience melts through his clothing, (today, brown, corduroy pants and a loose, almost-blouse like white top), and his words drip with enough noxious potency to sour the moods of others around him. (Musichetta has already snapped at him today for not helping the situation any with his perpetual pouting and mumbling.)

He is not a creature to be confined by such stifling heat; if he cannot take comfort in breathing in even the heavy air of a sweltering July morning, the reassuring presence of the air conditioner surrounding him like the bookshelves at least helps.

Now, without that relief, his thoughts drift to the way he could be seeking refuge from the sun in the garden of Cosette’s father, eating strawberries messily in between bushes while discussing the merits of negative capability in the context of transcendentalism. Naturally, these conversations almost always transgress to lips meeting and legs tangling while twigs and leaves settle into their twined hair. He can still taste the smudge of Cosette’s raspberry chapstick at the end of a previous hot day just last week; his scowl deepens as the vicious artificial lights overhead intrude upon his reminiscing, as though they are to blame for this whole incident. Not even the lovely violet of the walls on the floor, his favorite shade of purple from which he can usually spin images of faeries and the hopeless men meandering after them, helps to soothe his temper. The usually whimsical walls only serve to lengthen Jehan’s frown once he remembers that Cosette owns a dress in that exact violet.

It’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped at any customers yet, though all of their most unfortunate ones seem to deem their lack of air conditioning as the ideal time to stop by the store. (Beth, the nun bearing the kind of scrunching of the face she would only ever undo for God, bemoaning the state of the Lilac Branch’s morality or lack thereof while plucking yet another volume of St. Thomas Aquinas off the shelf, Jean Claude, the man with the beauty and arrogance of Achilles, always sneering at whichever unfortunate employee happened to be assisting him, commenting on every little detail about them that happened to be rudely slowing down his day, and Marcel, the “local author” who apparently already wrote every story on their shelves, but his writing proved too much of a risk for publishers, and so their store was forced to suffer the less compelling versions of his genius, much to their misfortune. Jehan rather considered it a blessing, himself.)

Jehan thinks that if God is testing him, surely he’s passed, if not with flying colors, at least with some amount of dignity by now, though he can’t completely suppress his ire as his headache builds.

Of course, the whining child a couple aisles up decides now is the perfect moment to burst into tears.

Grantaire, spying on him from beneath the sweaty tendrils of his dark hair, only makes the irritation simmering beneath Jehan’s skin start to bubble. He says nothing, only stares at Jehan, eyes bright with mischief and an exaggerated pout on his lips as he mimes playing a tiny violin.

“Grantaire, quit it before I punch you in the fu – dging nose.” Jehan’s aware enough to catch himself in the presence of a child now crying, but his voice still rings out high strung as Grantaire snorts and rolls his eyes.

“I can’t decide, between you and Pontmercy, which of you is more adorable when riled up.” He remarks, moving his hand to hold his chin in a mockery of contemplation. His voice borders on the edge of cooing; Jehan feels the remnants of his patience as they slip through the cracks between his fingers like grains of sand.

“Says the idiot who seems to forget last October when I kicked your ass boxing.” Jehan puts his bottle to clench his fists at his sides. On top of everything else, he woke up too late to meet Cosette for their usual coffee at the café just below her apartment with Eponine. The lack of her bright eyes and her laughter like the chirping of baby birds mulls inside of him along with the oppressive heat of the store. (He refuses to check the temperature, melancholy enough as it is. If Cosette were here, she’d comment on the Byronic nature of his mood, or some other teasing remark to that affect, until she got him to giggle with her.)

“Yeah, but who taught you how to use those fists of yours in the first place?” Grantaire retorts, though he shrugs, still leaning against the counter with his arms now casually draped by his side. His eyes twinkle, but his smile doesn’t quite reach them as he raises one hand to wipe across his forehead for the tenth time in the past ten minutes. Part of Jehan wants to provoke the frustration underlying the façade of good cheer Grantaire puts on for show. He thinks, perhaps, coming to blows will magically restore the air conditioner and banish his headache.

“Will the two of you stop already? It is too damn hot in here for me to be watching three ridiculous children at once.” Musichetta scowls, even as the parents of the now screaming child glare back at the three of them, as though they were the ones responsible for their boy’s raging tantrum.

“Grantaire started it!” Internally, Jehan is only too aware of how utterly _pathetic_ he sounds, whining like a spoiled child denied a treat by his mother. Yet he can’t bring himself to stop, urged on by the sweat binding his skin to his clothing like glue and the wailing of the child at the front of the store. His headache only grows with each of the young boy’s sobs.

“How old are you? Three?” Grantaire throws his head back and laughs, his dark hair bouncing in time with his giggles. His voice has an edge to it; he bares teeth in his smile now.

“I’m not the one provoking other people for their own amusement, you ass.” Jehan actually almost sticks out his tongue at Grantaire as he hisses under his breath.

Musichetta pinches the bridge of her nose, which puts an abrupt end to the squabbling without her having to raise her voice or step between them. (For this reason, she is listed as McGonagall in Jehan’s phone.) Jehan recalls the last time she made this gesture at him, seconds before chewing him out for lecturing customers away from the young adult section because a certain popular series particularly offended him. The memory proves enough to reign in his temper, somewhat. Catching sight of the flickering embers in Musichetta’s eyes, he bites down on his lip and shudders. He notices Grantaire going through similar motions; for a quick moment, their eyes meet. They both nod, and Jehan knows their tension to be at an end, for now, at least. It’s not an outright apology, but it’s a start.

The parents keep glaring at the three of them even as their own child shrieks like a banshee behind them, and Jehan wonders how two such oblivious people could even begin to procreate in the first place.

“I really didn’t want to have to say anything, but it’s too hot for this.” Musichetta maneuvers her way from behind the counter, straightening her shoulders and molding her face into a mask of cultivated neutrality. Jehan only recognizes the tell-tale signs of artificiality (her eyes constantly flickering between the ceiling and the floor, her smile faltering when she thinks no one can see) because of how long he’s known Musichetta. To any outside observer, she represents the ideal of the perfect, even-tempered manager, a skill that has saved Jehan’s skin on multiple occasions.

“Musichetta, let me handle this. I can be good with kids, you know that.” Grantaire moves to stop her, briefly looking to the child, whose wretched crying continues. “And I feel bad, besides.”

“The heat is making everyone miserable.” She responds with a pointed look at Jehan, who can only chew on his lip with the sudden urge to study the details on the carpet by his feet. “And I’d really like to get through today with as few customer complaints as possible.”

Jehan looks up again, shame flushing his cheeks.

Musichetta exhales quickly, before pulling herself up again, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear as she makes her way to the parents and their child, who has blessedly stopped screaming but is still making horrific, hiccup-like noises, snot pooling beneath his nose with the remnants of his tears.

Jehan perks up as the bell at the front of the store jangles; Cosette and the tall, white-haired man Jehan recognizes as her father, Monsieur Fauchelevent, walk through the door and he finds himself bearing his first grin all day.

The slight, silver headband glows against Cosette’s cropped hair like a halo; the off-white tunic dress and the golden sandals she wears only render her more angelic. Jehan does not mind being reduced to clichés when it comes to Cosette. Her eyes are as bright as seashells; her warm smile distracts him from the plastic bag by her side as she walks further into the store with her father.

Even dressed casually as he is in shorts and a well-worn, turquoise t-shirt, the figure of Cosette’s father still looms, tall and imposing, his muscles clearly defined by his shirt, over his daughter by his side. Yet he does not hesitate to trip over some invisible bump in the rug, arms flailing in clownish motions as he falls on his knees with an exaggerated expression of woe on his face.

Cosette hides her giggles behind one hand as even the parents’ of the previously upset boy let out a snort. The young child pauses in his hiccups to let out a giggle so adorable that it dims the redness of his eyes and eases the past twenty minutes of sobbing. Valjean hides his own smile as he attempts to get back on his feet, only to fall down to the carpet once again. The young boy claps and squeals in delight as Monsieur Fauchelevent fails to make it to his feet multiple times in a row. Cosette takes the opportunity to make her way to the register, her bag flapping as it glances against her thigh in time with the movements of her footsteps. She looks like Keats’ lady in the meads, and Jehan finds his headache receding as he meets her lovely gaze.

“How much do I have to bribe the hospital to release you into my employment?” Musichetta envelops her in a bear hug before practically sweeping her off her feet, her face laminated by the width of her smile. “I would bring you your own fallen star to bribe you away.”

Cosette breaks away with a twinkle in her eyes that always causes Jehan’s heart to stutter.

“Only if that fallen star comes with a band of snarky ghost brothers who’ve all killed each other for their father’s throne. Oh, and a cross-dressing pirate Captain with a penchant for plays on words.”

Her lips quirk into a smirk. “But I’ll only truly consider your offer if you let me have a moment with the boy who just happens to work in a shop for the time being.”

Grantaire and Musichetta roll their eyes in unison as Jehan just barely refrains from throwing himself at Cosette.

“Oh, but before I forget.” Cosette all but shoves the plastic bag into Grantaire’s hands. “I brought fudgicles and my father, because I got your text, Jehan, and I didn’t know if anyone had come to see about your air conditioning? Papa’s very good with machinery.”

‘Dear papa’ remains on the floor, making the young child and parents both giggle. Luckily, they remain the only customers in the store.

“You are a saint.” Musichetta informs Cosette as Grantaire immediately pulls the box from the bag, tearing it open and grabbing a fudgicle which he quickly stuffs in his mouth as soon as he undoes the wrapper. Jehan cringes as Musichetta and Cosette both laugh.

“Jehan, I regret to inform you that I’m going to have to steal your girlfriend. She’s perfect.” He declares through a mouthful of chocolate.

“I regret to inform you that I get attached too easily and I’m not letting go anytime soon.” Cosette replies before Jehan can respond, linking arms with him as she quickly kisses him on the cheek.

“Alright, I’ll give you ten minutes. But only because of the popsicles. And maybe occasional filling in when one of these idiots calls out?” Musichetta asks as she tugs the box from Grantaire and takes a fudgicle for herself.

“Done!” Cosette calls out, waving over her shoulder as she leads Jehan towards the mint green curtain.

“Put that smile back on for us. He looks like a puffer fish when he scowls!” Grantaire calls out. Jehan moves to flip him off when Cosette reaches over and takes his free hand in hers, making their navigation to the backroom slightly more complicated but at least avoiding disaster.

They make it to the privacy of the break area with relative ease. Cosette pulls and spins Jehan into her arms, leaning her chin on his shoulder as he relaxes into her embrace. She smells like roses and honey as the golden tendrils of her hair glance against his skin, as soft and fine as a paint brush. Jehan exhales and his shoulders slump as she cradles him against her chest. His headache, while not entirely gone, fades to a more manageable level of pain in her presence.

“How bad?” She asks, though her tone of voice suggests she already knows the answer.

“Manfred.” He says as she tightens her arms around his waist, squeezing him gently before releasing him.

“I don’t blame you. It really is hot as balls in here.” She says as she walks around to face him, grasping his hands and swinging them between their bodies with a smile. “Did you make that little boy cry?”

“That wasn’t me!” He replies defensively. Cosette squeezes his hands again, leaning in to rest her forehead against his.

“I believe you.” She says, leaning in further so that her words just brush against his slightly parted lips. He shivers at the weight of them.

“Your hair looks like sunlight.” He says as he brings his hands to run through her short locks. A faint tinge of pink blooms across Cosette’s skin; Jehan grins as he leans in to bring their lips together.

“And even with your broody eyes, you’re still my favorite puffer fish.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as Jehan pulls back with an indignant pout.

“He-” He starts to protest just as Cosette presses her lips to his.

She throws her arms around his neck as he wraps his arms around her waist. They kiss like lovers long parted (though in truth it has only been a day), slow yet insistent. Cosette’s lips flutter against his like gossamer wings; he quietly moans at their delicacy.

Jehan grins with mischievous eyes of his own as he pulls back, lifting Cosette off the ground to spin her around in the air.

“Jehan!” She exclaims with a breathless laugh, her blue eyes as wild as the thumping of his heart. His laughter mingles with hers as he continues to spin her ‘round.

“If I’m your puffer fish, then you are my butterfly, dear Cosette!” Jehan declares before finally setting her down.

“Is that so?” Cosette pulls him forward into another kiss as he nods.

“How long, do you think, until your father comes back here?” He asks when they break apart.

Her eyes sparkle as he trembles.

“Long enough,” she says, kissing him this time with all the might she can muster.

Jehan sings the broken air conditioner’s praises as they fall into each other’s embrace.


End file.
